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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372507">Recollections</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Child_Of_Musicals/pseuds/Child_Of_Musicals'>Child_Of_Musicals</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A series of oneshots, Established Relationship, Fluff, HAHAHAHA BE SCARED, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, With an overarching plot, and that plot will have ANGST, anyway uhhh, there's still fluff to be had</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:02:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372507</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Child_Of_Musicals/pseuds/Child_Of_Musicals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The memories we attach to photographs and objects are powerful.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson &amp; Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Mrs. Hudson &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Recollections</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The photograph is of a young round-cheeked Rosie, swathed in a soft pink blanket and unconscious in Sherlock's lap. He's looking down at her, smiling softly, unaware of any other presence in the room as he devotes all the emotion he denies he has towards the child he holds.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>John Watson, (former) army doctor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, has seen and done a lot. He’s run through the streets of London, chasing a brilliantly mad detective; he’s had many, many crises over his attraction to said madman; and he’d eventually come to terms with it- (the both of them had, actually, and they were quite content with what they’d created.) He’d watched the detective fake his death, he’d watched his wife properly die, and by this point he’s a widower in a dingy, lively, dangerous-experiment-ridden flat with a risk-loving, knowledge-hungry hurricane and a petulant, stubborn child. It becomes hard to figure out which is which some days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even after all that, there are some sights he’s still unprepared for. That list includes seeing Sherlock Holmes, self-announced “high-functioning sociopath”, sitting meekly at 221B Baker Street’s pockmarked kitchen table with a skein of baby-pink wool and knitting needles, their landlady overseeing the proceedings and looking uncharacteristically stony.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Now, Sherlock, you’re going to loop the wool around the needle and-- ooh! John, hello, dearie! Sherlock’s just gone a bit tetchy today, so we thought we’d make a little something for Rosie, didn’t we?”</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“...Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” The man himself is looking equal parts adamant and abashed, his grey-blue-green-gold-what-color-are-they-even eyes shooting John a look that reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Please help me, I’ve been trapped.’  </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dramatic little shit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>John thinks, his mouth quirking up at the edges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something for Rosie? Er, the little angel is right--” John looks out the door at the curly-haired toddler, who’d carefully wormed out of his grasp at some point. She’s attempting to scoot down the stairs in search of adventure, the recklessness of her father and Sherlock already instilled in her, so he grabs her by the hand and pulls her inside gently. “Here.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mrs. Hudson’s face melts immediately, and she somehow teleports over (sheer force of grandmotherly will, John thinks) and begins cooing at Rosie and asking all sorts of silly questions. John leaves Rosie to the woman’s ministrations and walks over to Sherlock, pecking his ridiculous fringe of curls before looking down at his hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’re you making, then?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scowls across the room at Mrs. Hudson halfheartedly. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> making a documentation of the burning speed and traits of various natural and synthetic fibres, before it was interrupted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman looks up immediately from Rosie’s giggles and interrupts, face stern once again. “Sherlock! Tell John the whole story, or I’ll take your skull again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...Certain of the fibres necessary were most easily accessible in the form of Watson’s blanket.” He has the decency to look a little ashamed, though whether it’s because he did it or because he was caught doing it is anyone’s guess.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock? Did… did you burn Rosie’s blanket?” John asks, a bit dumbfounded. He’s always known Sherlock was this way, but the man’s always shown such care and caution where Rosie is concerned that John hadn’t thought something like this was possible— </span>
  <em>
    <span>but then again, this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock we’re talking about.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Ok, that’s definitely a bit of guilt. “In my defense, I bought her a second. She’ll still have a blanket.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but Sherlock, she loves </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>blanket. I didn’t expect you to go and do something like this!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rosie’s blanket-- she had gotten it, three years ago, as a gift from Sherlock’s parents, and she’s had an iron grip on it since then. Everywhere she goes, she’s got her ‘Raff-- a cat stuffie that she refuses to acknowledge as anything other than a giraffe, to Sherlock’s eternal chagrin-- or her blanket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sentiment.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s a child, Sherlock, of course there’s sentiment! Might I remind you of Redbeard?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock glances balefully at John, who knows he’s pushed at a sort of boundary with that. Two years and still too soon, it seems. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Which is why, after Mrs. Hudson showed me the grave error of my ways, I am being made to hand-knit her another. Waste of time if you ask me, but I have a very important set of petri dishes set out upstairs and she’s threatening to disturb them if I don’t do it.” He glares at Mrs. Hudson again, who does nothing but smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well then, Sherlock,” John grins, “I’m sure you’re up to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>challenge</span>
  </em>
  <span> of repeatedly winding wool around some sharp sticks. Just don’t leave them near Rosie, she might poke her eyes out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock rolls his eyes, looks at the skull on the mantel as if to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘mortals, am I right?’, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but smiles a bit anyway. “I suppose I could treat this as an experiment.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s the spirit. I think I remember my mother’s teaching me, even though I was an ignorant 8-year-old— would you like me to pick up where Mrs. left off?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“lf you must.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John pulls a chair next to Sherlock and takes the needles from his hands. The first row is done— the Cast-On, John thinks? Sherlock’s looking at John’s hands with a bit of concentration that John wants to keep focused, so he begins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Slip the empty needle into the topmost stitch— make sure it’s not caught between the strands of wool. Loop the strand of yarn coming from the skein around the needle, pull the needle out and take the loop with it. Take the stitch off the other needle.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock is still looking at the proceedings, albeit a bit hazy-eyed, which John counts as a win. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s the, uh… knit stitch, I think? Not sure.” John holds up the needles, now connected to each other, and smiles sheepishly. “I think that’s all you need to know, right now. Just… keep doing it until all of the stitches have come over to the other needle, and then repeat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mindless, boring, repetitive, slow. What’s the point?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, some people find it therapeutic, find it allows them to relax. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>are doing it because you owe it to Rosie, and because you’re going to drive us all mad if we’re going to stay home like this for another month or two with nothing for you to do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No.” Sherlock crosses his arms, once again a stubborn child, and John marvels once again at how the smartest, most amazing man he’s ever met is also the most petulant and immature in other situations.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No? Sherlock, if you don’t do this, I’ll get Mycroft.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mycroft doesn’t scare me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, but then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’ll</span>
  </em>
  <span> get Mummy, and she does.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” He snatches the needles from John before staring at them cluelessly. “I seem to have deleted the procedure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John groans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-[o]-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Simple.” Sherlock takes the needles from John once more with an air of arrogance, puts the needle through the next stitch, loops the wool around the needle, attempts to untangle the needles— and throws them across the room, exasperated. They sail point-first through the air and stick in the wall with a dull thunk, courtesy of posh-boarding-school javelin training.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John lowers his face into his palm, already considering how he’ll explain the pair of millimeter-wide holes in the wall to Mrs. Hudson.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re paying for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock waves it off grumpily. “How is this the definition of ennui and still so needlessly complicated and strange?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the fifth time he’s failed, John notes. That information could be useful later. “Sherlock, everyone takes a bit to figure out knitting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not just </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone </span>
  </em>
  <span>though!” He pushes a hand through already-disastrous curls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, I’m aware, Your Highness.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>High-ness? He’s certainly good at that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>murmurs the university-age John still tucked away somewhere inside him, always ready with terrible drug- and alcohol- and sex-jokes. Middle-aged Dad John smacks Uni John. The Sherlock in John’s brain attempts to hide his sniggers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The real Sherlock wilts dramatically into John’s lap and scowls. “Ja-a-awn, it’s useless. I bought Watson a blanket, it should suffice.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock. Petri dishes. Sanitizer being poured in said petri dishes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sanitizer is hard enough to come by as it is, you wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Soap, then. I certainly would.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sherlock slowly and irritatedly pulls himself up off of John and walks to the needles, haphazardly yanking them out of the wall. “Fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. Now come here, you wanker.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>John takes Sherlock's hands again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>note about the work history: this was originally posted as a oneshot (A Different Kind of Needle), but ideas just kind of popped into my head, so this will be continued under the name Recollections. </p><p>leave comments and i will squeak obsessively over them. thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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